(no subject)
I write like nothing is impossible like I love the lives of my past, the present and future all in synch driving through the torrid desert hot and fatal in the sun. the air is full, capacitated, in heavy mastery like existence can only be learned, and I learn. from the voices, convulsing frantic, of valencia and the beats of roadside travelers, the only ones that speak when i am shivering with mayhem, begging to be lost and understood. I am absorbing and soaked with expectation like nothing is slow or fast but simply occasion, prospect, and the shadows on the sand spell out words of my novel, the road is typing my typewriter, clicking black and white letters under my sweaty fingertips, hauntingly unstable with feet on the dashboard. here, I am a freeness of free, without, and for nothing. I am not inside the confines of my own mind, the confines of these walls, of this bedroom, lying in the bed of responsibility. I am not bearing the weights of expectation, assumption, of success. I am living my anticipation, I am inside my restless body exploding like cables, firing alive every expanse, quenching the scope of my dreams, nameless and faceless and consumed. I am no longer nothing, I shed my skin of resource and safety, adapting, filling myself with satisfying sentience. finally, I am hastily escaping, everything.